


Writing Prompts

by Motionallyperpetual



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, prompts, writing prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-05-15 16:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14793761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Motionallyperpetual/pseuds/Motionallyperpetual
Summary: So, this my writing responses to some prompts. Not fan-fiction.





	1. Christmas Eve

The wind whispered harshly in his ear as he clutched the thick ropes in his fists, guiding his way to his next destination. Thick clouds blotted out the stars, but a full moon had peeked out just enough to bathe the sky in a soft glow. He gently pulled the reins back, so that his crew would land, though, not that they wouldn't, because they knew just as well as him that the up coming house was next on the list. A single boy - aged eleven - and his single father lay residence there. Hooves chuntered softly against the roof, and so he grabbed the velvet sack from behind him and dismounted his seat. His boots padded lightly on the roof as he headed toward the chimney - _and thank the north pole this house had a roof, it makes things a hell of a lot easier,_ he thought to himself. With practiced ease, Nicholas went down the chimney and into the house. He lazily stepped out of the fireplace, one that did not seem to be frequently used, he noted. A frown etched itself onto his face, a feeling he was not used to. Instead of hearing a house filled with slumber and the whizzing chirr of the insects from outside, the house was humming with sound. He glanced at his silver worn pocket watch that adorned his side, and adjusted the glasses that clung to his nose as he gazed at it, just in case. No, it was not a fluke; it was Christmas Eve, twenty five past the eleventh hour. Nicholas warily walked further into the house. There was not a Christmas tree in the room he stood, which was odd, as it seemed as if it was the living room. A large television was set up adjacent to him, and a worn, grey couch a few feet away, parallel to it. An orange glow escaped from underneath a closed door, noise level rapidly growing from behind it. Suddenly, a crash startled from the room, further unsettling him. Nicholas crept soundlessly toward the door, and carefully turned the handle, pushing it open just enough to see inside the room. The boy - Adam, as he recalled - was pressed against the cherry wood wall, cowering away from a man,  _his father,_ who leaned over him, his jaw locked in anger. It took a moment for him to realize what was happening, such an awful thing on  _Christmas Eve._ As he looked, Nicholas saw that the man was not only making the boy cower from him, but was also relentlessly kicking him sharply in the abdomen, not faltering as the boy cried out.  _That is enough,_ Nicholas angrily thought to himself. He noisily dropped the velvet bag, realizing he had been clutching it in his silent horror, and pushed the door open with force. The door swung back with so much force it hit the wall behind it with a loud  _bang,_ drawing the father's attention to the intruder. Nicholas entered the room with heavy, deliberate steps ready to do whatever it took to ensure Adam's safety.


	2. Untitled

My best friend messaged me today.

He told me he tried to kill himself again.

Breathe.

He wrote that he closed his eyes and walked into traffic

and he wrote that he wished it worked.

My best friend tried to kill himself again.

Breathe.

I wrote back that I wish everytime he tries, he fails.

I wrote from a computer, fourteen hours away from him

tears streaming down my face.

My hand trembles above the keyboard.

Breathe.

When will the day come, when I wake up to a post on facebook

or twitter

or snapchat

That my best friend has died?

All that he was, gone?

That I wouldn't finish building forts with him in The Forest,

or ever again fail miserably at Fortnite together?

That I would tag him in cat pictures, forgetting that he would never see them?

That the Christmas present I bought him would sit on my shelf forever?

Breathe.

My best friend tried to kill himself again.

And no amount of words rearranged on a paper

will ever do him justice.

_Breathe._

 

 

 

 


End file.
